


Boston National

by scarlettblythe



Category: The Mindy Project
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, we are establishing a bond here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettblythe/pseuds/scarlettblythe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I imagine exactly none of you remember how I promised you guys a fic based on The National poster Danny has in his apartment, huh? Well, here it is, the story based on my very angsty, weepy tags about Danny and Mindy in Boston, and the angsty guitar music that makes them friends. Short multichapter, updated at my usual erratic pace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boston National

Mindy Lahiri never meant to be late. It’s not like she had _purposely_ slept through her alarms, after all. It also wasn’t her fault that her carefully-selected plane outfit had mustard down the front - she was blaming that one on Maggie. Or that there was a busted water main sending floods of gross city grit down into her regular subway station, forcing her to walk a million blocks to the next one with all her luggage. She should have gotten a cab, but everyone _assured_ her that the traffic was so bad at this time of the morning that the subway was almost faster. In any case, she’d tried after the subway debacle, but her New York ability to hail one had completely deserted her. Instead she stood at the entrance to the subway, on the verge of hysterics and surrounded by her adorable pink luggage, all of which was rapidly being covered in filth.

 

All of this was to say that by the time she got to check-in (with two minutes to spare, a narrow win she would celebrate, with booze, as soon as she got on the plane), she did not have any patience left for the woman behind the counter stuttering about seat assignments. _Put me wherever_ , she’d said. _I don’t care. Just give me my boarding pass so I can hunt down tiny bottles of vodka._

 

And that, as it happened, was the only real mistake she’d made all day. She didn’t know it yet, but her real trouble was about to hit her. It was looming ahead, waiting for her just past security (who knew that adorable kitty keyring she’d bought was technically brass knuckles? And what right did they have to even confiscate it? This was _America_ , after all), after she’d hurtled headlong into that old lady in a wheelchair and accidentally broken the travelator, once she’d shoved her mangled boarding pass into the flight attendant’s palm and been waved aboard. After all of that, she’d dragged her oversized carry-on down the aisle, ignoring the complaints of passengers who were caught in its path. She’d arrived at her seat, and -

 

“No.” His impossibly brown eyes lit upon her, widening in shock then settling into a narrow kind of fury.

“Oh, my god.” She stumbled backwards, eliciting a shout from the man in the seat behind her, as if _he’d_ never fallen over in shock at being faced with a handsome jerk before.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh my _god_.”

“Stewardess! Excuse me, stewardess-” He reached up, waving to catch the flight attendant’s attention.

“Don’t call them that, you gross old man.” She knocked away his hand, shifting to block him from the attendant’s view. “Hey, uniform lady!”

“Much better.”

“Well, it wasn’t Mad Men levels of sexist, so yes. Better.”

The flight attendant turned from assisting someone with their bag and came towards them, smile fixed on her face.

“Can I help you at all?”

Mindy plastered on her most winning smile.“Yes, hi. I’m sorry to bug you, but there has been some kind of mistake.”

“Yeah, I specifically asked not to be seated next to any screaming children.”

Mindy hit Danny in the arm. “That is rude, and uncalled for.” She turned to the flight attendant, leaning in to murmur confidentially in her ear. “What he means to say is that he has an extreme phobia of bright colours, laughter and fun, and would like to be seated elsewhere so that my cheery disposition doesn’t cause a panic attack.” Mindy smiled at Danny, patting his arm, radiating sympathy. “It’s so tough for the little guy.”

Danny’s eyebrows knitted together. “Wait - what?”

The flight attendant blinked a few times, as if to clear something irritating from her vision. Smile back on her face, she informed them that seat assignments were final and asked, through what sounded like gritted teeth, if Mindy needed any help with her luggage.

“No,” Mindy sighed. “I’m fine.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to hoist that thing up into the overhead locker,” Danny observed. “Because I won’t. You brought it, it’s your responsibility.”

“Like I would ever ask you to help. I can do it myself,” Mindy retorted, considering her suitcase with a frown.

 

She could, too, even if it took her five minutes and seriously annoyed the people trying to get to the seats behind her. Danny ignored the telltale noise of passenger dissent around him, the glasses perched on his nose lending him a sanctimonious air as he perused his newspaper. He didn’t even look up when she collapsed into her seat, breathing hard. She fidgeted, trying to get comfortable in her second-favourite sweatpants, cursing roommates who ate mustard under her breath. The kid in the seat behind her had his feet squarely jammed into the back of her chair, leaving Mindy no option but to recline her seat as forcefully as possible in order to dislodge the brat. She raised and lowered it a few more times, just to be sure he wouldn’t try it again.

 

Finally comfortable, she stretched, letting her forearms drop onto the armrests as she rolled her head, exhaling strongly through her mouth.

“Do you have to do that?”

“Do what?” Mindy asked, her eyes closed.

“The weird breathing thing.”

“Gwyneth does it whenever she flies. It helps cleanse your lungs of toxins from the recycled air and stops you getting blood clots.”

“You have got to be kidding me. You’re a doctor, you can’t possibly believe any of that crap.”

“Excuse me, GOOP is not crap. It is the foundation for my entire vision board.”

“Also crap.”

“Excuse you, they have been proven to work.”

“By Guinevere?”

 _“Gwyneth._ Don’t pretend like you don’t know who she is. There isn’t a man under 70 who hasn’t seen Iron Man. So you’re like, just under the cutoff.” Mindy smirked.

“Isn’t Iron Man a guy?”

Mindy gasped in indignation. “Firstly, Pepper Potts would make an amazing Iron Man, _or Woman_ , and she would totally save the world and keep RDJ as the arm candy she rightfully deserves. Secondly, at this point pretending you haven’t seen the movie and don’t know who I’m talking about is just insulting my intelligence.”

Danny shrugged. “It was okay. Not _The Godfather_ , but not terrible.”

“I knew it!”

“Shut up, okay? They’re doing the safety demonstration. I need to know where the emergency exits are.”

 

********************

Take-off successfully achieved, Danny took out his newspaper again, ignoring the woman gazing at him on his right. He frowned at the front page - something about foreign investment - making a mental note to check out who owned his building when he got home. There was an exaggerated sigh from the seat next to him, and from the corner of his eye he could see her, her brown chin propped up on her hand, one elbow on his arm rest as she stared him down.

 

“What do you want, Mindy?”

“You know this flight is to Boston, right?”

His eyes flicked up, at least six sarcastic responses tumbling into his head, all of which would spur her into continuing whatever interrogation was coming. The safest course with Mindy, he’d found, was to give her what she wanted, but only what she’d asked for. He licked his thumb, using it to turn the page of his newspaper. “Yep.”

“Boston, Massachusetts.”

“Did you major in geography?”

“Not Boston, New York. If that’s even a place.”

“It isn’t.”

“Exactly.”

Danny scowled at an article on corn subsidies, resisting the urge to ask what _exactly_ meant, or why she cared where Boston was.

 

“Danny?”

“Yes, Mindy?”

“Danny, come on.”

“Come on, what?” He started the article again from the beginning. Corn subsidies. He tried to remember whether he was against those.

“Why are you so antisocial? We are stuck on this plane for an _hour_ , and this stupid low-rent airline doesn’t even have TVs on the back of the seats.”

“I’m not antisocial, I’m busy. Just read your magazine and be quiet.”

“Oh please, you’ve been staring at that cranky old man holding those ears of corn for like a year now. You’re not busy. A little pervy, maybe -”

“Pervy?”

“Whatever. Why are you going to Boston?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Why not? Is it illegal? Are you carrying out a hit to pay back the mob boss who put you through college? Oh my god.” She froze in apparent terror, before leaning forward, nose to his ear and breath on his neck. _“Tell me you are not dealing drugs.”_

“What?” He shuddered, instinctively slapping at her, shoving her away from his face, his throat, his ear. “What the hell, Mindy?” He rubbed his hand down his neck, brushing off the bacteria she had no doubt left behind.

“Well, why else are you being so secretive? It’s weird, Danny!”

“Oh boy. Okay, fine. I’m going to a concert, okay?”

“A concert?” The words came out robotically, tasting strange in her mouth. “You took time off work for a concert?”

“It’s not like that. Shulman pointed out that I had some vacation days stored up, figured maybe I could use a few days off.”

“Oh." Mindy nodded, grinning like a cat. "This is about that thing last week, isn’t it?”

“It is not about the thing last week.”

“You broke that guy’s nose, Danny.”

“It was an accident. I apologised. We shook hands! It’s done.”

“Shulman told you to take time off so he could make sure we didn’t get sued, didn’t he?”

“No! Shulman just, he sees how hard _some of us_ work in that office. And he’s a good guy, Shulman. He wants his staff well-rested, and…”

“Not punchy?”

“Hey! No-one punched anyone.”

“Okay, Rocky.”

“Can I read my newspaper now?”

“No. Which concert is it? Ooh, is it 50 Cent? No, wait, he’s not arriving until the end of June.” She lapsed into silence, mentally filing through her list of tour dates for all artists she deemed worthy.

 

Danny sighed, closing his newspaper. “It’s The National.”

Mindy’s face was blank. “The National what?”

“That’s it. Just _The National_.”

“Is it like… philosophical?”

“No, it’s just - it’s just a name, okay? It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Okay then.” She raised her hands in front of herself, fending off his irritation. Under her breath, she muttered “It’s just a lame name.”

“It’s - they’re not lame!”

“Aren’t they, though?”

“No! They’re - they play real music, you know? Guitar, bass, drum kit, vocals. None of this -” he twiddled his fingers in the air in front of him.

“Fairy dust?”

“No, computer stuff.”

“Ohhhh,” Mindy breathed in recognition. “So they’re old.”

“They’re my age!”

 _“Super_ old. My mistake.”

“Look, it’s good music, okay? And you could do with stuff more like it in your life. Real musicians with real instruments, it’s what America was built on.”

“Um, I’m pretty sure the computer industry is what America was built on. Oh, and Hollywood.”

“You know what? Listen to _High Violet._ You’ll see what I mean.”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Okay. I’ll get the album.” Mindy scrabbled in her purse, pulling out a purple glitter pen and a gum wrapper. Bracing it against his shoulder, she printed the title in neat capitals. She folded it carefully and put it in her purse, beaming at him all the while. “This is so cool, Danny!”

“What is so cool?”

“Us! We’re like, bonding! This can be our thing. Years from now, when I’m giving the toast at your wedding -”

“You will not be doing that.”

“I’ll tell everyone how it was your love for old-man music that _really_ brought us together.”

“There will be no toast.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Will you shut up so I can read my newspaper now?”

“Ugh. Fine. This is going to be the longest forty-five minutes of my life.”

 

He relaxed into the comparative quiet, enjoying the burble of people chatting a few rows back, the hum of the air being pumped through the cabin. Smoothing the open paper on his lap, he started again on the article. _Corn subsidies._ They were important.

 

His mind wandered, and he found himself glancing over at Mindy, who was enthralled by an article involving a redheaded woman wearing a garish pantsuit. Her headphones were in, head bobbing to a beat he couldn’t hear. She raised her thumb to her mouth, biting at the nail, and he resisted the urge to pull it out and scold her. It wasn’t his business if she ended up ripping her nail off and hurting herself, after all.

 

He turned back to his article, eyes glazing over the statistics. He tried to focus on the statement from a government representative, but the movement of her bobbing head tugged at him until he found himself staring at her, uncertain but determined.

 

“So why are _you_ headed out to Boston?”

His question startled her into dropping her hand from her mouth. She narrowed her eyes as she plucked the headphones from her ears, suspicious as to his motives, but she saw nothing in his face but bland curiosity.

“My family lives out there.”

“Really? You’re a Bostonian? What happened to your accent?”

“Freak accident.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you know Foreign Accent Syndrome?”

“That thing that happens sometimes after people get hit in the head?” Danny smirked. “Well, that explains a lot.”

Mindy hit him with her magazine. “That was rude. To people with head trauma, and to me. But no, in my case it was emotional trauma.”

“Oh, boy.” Danny turned to face forwards again, shaking out his newspaper.

“Hey, don’t act like you’re done with this conversation. You _started_ this conversation, pal. You are going to see it through.” She raised a hand, intending to poke him into submission, but found herself poking his headrest as the plane took a sudden dip, shaking violently.

Mindy squeaked, grabbing both armrests. The seatbelt light came on and she closed her eyes, trying to visualise a calm, peaceful beach. A beach with Chris Pine on it.

“You okay there?” Danny’s mocking drawl interrupted the sound of lapping waves. She opened her eyes, scowling ferociously.

“I hate turbulence, okay?”

“Need me to hold your hand?”

“Gross.” When she glanced to her left, though, she noticed his white face, the sweat beading on his lip. “Woah. Do you need to hold _my_ hand?” She reached out to grasp it, cradling it to her chest and crooning to him. “It’s okay, baby Danny. Soon we’ll be safe and sound -”

“What? No! Stop it!” Danny snatched his hand back, shooting her a look so furious she choked on her giggles.

She settled back into her seat, suddenly certain that all would be well.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is my apology for my excessive, ridiculous writer's block of late. It's been disgusting and anxiety-inducing and monstrous. I have written thousands of words and then erased them from existence. BUT THESE ONES ESCAPED. And here they are. I hope you don't mind this fic, even though it isn't the promised update to ANYTHING ELSE. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.


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